Not Always Summer
by Thirteen Tears
Summary: Private wasn't always so bright and innocent. Rico wasn't always unintelligible. Manfredi and Johnson aren't just names tossed around to ensure quality performance. But nothing gold can stay, and the boys must learn that it won't always be summer, and to be prepared for the dark days of winter.
1. Prologue: Wanting to Know

_**Well, here is the dealio, my schmeelios- I LoZ story isn't doing terribly hot, and my current minor obsession is PoM. That said, if y'all like this better than others like the other, then I'll continue. Otherwise I'll just die sad and alone with my thirty cats :). I will warn that this is rated T for a very good reason. It'll be quite dark along the road, and we don't need any soft kiddies losing their innocence. That said, hope y'all enjoy- please review, be the word good, bad, or ugly.**_

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**Prologue: Wanting to Know**

He watched the neon nibbling away at the moonlight, a slow breeze ruffling his breast feathers. He knew the traces of cold in the air meant that summer was over for good, and that the whistling leaves in the oaks and sycamores would soon yield to Nature. Already they had faded to varying shades of yellow and orange, and some had begun to fall and littered the cool sidewalks and the dewy grass. The night was peaceful enough, but quiet was too much to ask for. He was in the City That Never Sleeps, after all. Horns blared and people shouted or laughed, cars and trucks rumbled as they hopped along the busy streets in a rolling limbo. He could faintly hear music from the lemur habitat- it was Friday night, and that meant an all night dance party for the Ringtail and his 'royal subjects'.

The penguin craned his neck to see the sky, but there only hung an inky blue darkness, studded with lights from the skyscrapers and the drowning moon. Stars failed to shine. Skipper lowered his head again, and his spine prickled. For once in his life he didn't care that he was being watched, didn't care that someone was stealing up behind him. Tonight was not a night for action. He slightly turned his head, body tense and ready, and caught a glimpse of black and white. The penguin immediately relaxed, but didn't turn to face his subordinate.

The other penguin, slightly shorter and far younger, took a place beside his leader. He was pensive, unsure, and a ball of nervousness was coiled in his gut. He looked at the glimmering jewels above the trees, the lights that signaled that humans still worked and played despite the day fading away. The bright, multicolored, little lights seemed to him the glow of a million twinkling stars that got bored in their heavenly cradle and came down to visit with the earth. Private smiled, and the lights winked back at him. He would have rather been watching the actual stars, but he hadn't the power to make them shine. The youth blinked around at the twinkling lights, wondering about the people that kept them on so late at night.

Skipper cut his eyes toward Private, knowing the boy's thoughts were brighter than his own. Private didn't know the significance of this day- didn't know or couldn't remember. Maybe he didn't want to remember, and so purged the past events from his innocent little mind. The boy flirted with notions of magic and unicorns and other sentimental, romantic notions that meant nothing to the commander. He was a little dreamer, an artist who painted light on a black canvas. Skipper knew he couldn't be he same. His thoughts were a buzz of orders, strategies, of plots and plans to remain several steps ahead of their enemies in the deadly tango that was his life. While Private painted light, Skipper followed alongside to cast shadows on the subjects. In a painting of Sad Eyes' happiness and mirth, Skipper painted the crazed lust that hid behind his cuteness. To Ringtail's fun and careless gaze, Skipper wove in arrogance and obsession. Maurice was a dark soul altogether, but Skipper managed to cast him further into shadows.

But he couldn't darken Private. No one could darken Private, no matter how hard they tried.

Skipper knew this to be a lie.

"Beautiful night, isn't it sah?" Asked the boy, cutting in on his CO's dark musings.

No, his mind instantly spat. "Yes it is, Private," he replied instead. The lad didn't have to know.

Private turned to look at him, and Skipper knew he couldn't hide from the younger's probing gaze. Though he never let on, Private could see everything. He knew everything. Even Skipper's darkest secrets were tossed into the light like the subjects of one of Private's paintings. Private stared for a long while, his face expressionless.

"You don't have to hide it Skippah," the voice was strange coming out of Private, it's tone dripping with a maturity rarely shown. "I know what day it is."

Skipper sighed, shaking his head at the young soldier. Young... Private was twenty-one years old. He didn't act it. He was still young, still innocent and sweet. He never seemed to have grown up in the unit ; because he already had, before being taken in. Skipper turned his gaze to the sky again, as though the stars would have come out in the time he spent talking to Private. The English agent followed his captain's gaze, and through the smog and city lights, he managed to find one twinkling star.

"Do you remember it, Private?"

Skipper's voice was strained with the memory. He still stared up at the sky, but couldn't see the stars that he knew had made themselves visible to the boy. Private looked down at his toes, fighting through the past. After a certain point, not long before his sixteenth birthday, the memories ceased to exist. He shook his head slowly, then remembered Skipper wasn't paying attention and spoke his answer in a low voice.

Skipper's eyes were drawn to Private's at the quiet 'No.' The youth was begging for the story. The shadow looked at his light and frowned.

"Do you really want to know?"


	2. Chapter 1: Compromised

The room was silent but for the routine ticking of a wall clock and the scribbling of a pencil stub on paper. Through the thin walls behind his head, Skipper could hear throaty giggles and the hum of multiple voices, but could make out no words. A particularly loud squeal followed by a breathless moan made the scribbling halt briefly. A younger Kowalski looked blushing over at the wall Skipper leant against, his expression a mix of embarrassment and mild frustration. Skipper just smirked and shrugged at the genius. Boys would be boys, and he could do little but reprimand his man for behaving as such on a mission. He knew Manfredi would just shrug off the words, uncaring, especially if the twin soubrettes he was entertaining on the other side of the wall were as pretty as they sounded. Kowalski returned to his scribbling and Skipper looked up at the ceiling, counting the seconds as they ticked.

Outside a pallid sun was setting, casting spectral shadows on the town and the run down shack of a motel where the penguins had commandeered rooms. The ancient keeper of the place hadn't questioned anything when the five-penguin-tall, trench coated and shady man walked unsteadily in and requested a room. Her eyes were too old to see through the shadows of the coat to the Arctic birds inside.

The room next door broke it into a cacophony of sounds that neither bird needed to hear, and Skipper kicked the wall harshly several times to get the trio to shut up or find somewhere else to be. Kowalski was glaring alternately between the wall and his commander, his pencil stub clenched in a flipper that trembled in frustration. He twisted in his chair to better face Skipper, a scolding complaint ready on his tongue, when he froze. The penguins' eyes shot to the door.

Knock-knock... Knock-knock-knock... Knock.

The two penguins looked at each other again, then glanced at the door. Kowalski stowed away his notebook. Skipper stood and silently crossed over to the door. Both were tense in anticipation and readiness, the air thick and stifling as their breaths were caught in their throats. As in belated afterthought there was another single rap at the door, and Skipper threw it open, glaring angrily at the penguin who waited outside on unsteady feet. Rico stumbled in, paused at the sounds that had risen again from the next room, and shook his head as his leader closed and locked the door once more. The violent-minded creature reeked of cheap corn liquor, and even as he stood still his body wavered.

"What did I tell you about drinking on a mission, soldier?" Skipper demanded, flippers crossed over his chest.

The snarky, slurred reply that leapt readily to Rico's beak was squashed with a smoldering, cobalt stare that demanded respect. Rico wisely sought a better reply. "Won't happen 'gain, sir."

Skipper's glare deepened at Rico's words. The taller penguin held his gaze steadily, his eyes dilated and hooded. Both knew the risks that Rico had taken in order to waste himself. He could've been caught or killed by the human bootleggers. He could've drawn the attention of their target or the citizens and put the whole mission in jeopardy. He could have led enemy spies to their very location. Rico knew all of this, but still disobeyed.

"I don't have the patience or time to deal with you without the Command accusing me of murder," Skipper growled at the drunken penguin. "But when this mission is over, you'd better be expecting the worst, soldier."

Rico managed to at least look slightly hurt, but then raised a brow in mute insolence as they were reminded again that the demolitions expert wasn't the only one in trouble.

"I'll deal with him, too," Skipper muttered darkly.

Moments later the tension had mostly dissipated. Kowalski returned to his blueprints, and again there was only his scratching and the clock's ticking.

"Johnson's got his own room for the night?" Skipper finally asked, the mindless sounds playing on his nerves.

"Yup," came the deep, muffled voice of Rico as he talked into the bedcovers. He rolled over onto his back any stared at the ceiling. "Can't believe M'nfredi's still wit' them dames. 'S been hours..."

"We know, we've heard _all_ the details," Kowalski muttered from the writing desk he occupied by the window, continuing his scratching.

"Prude," Rico grinned.

"Shut up about Manfredi," Skipper ordered sharply. "I'll have your disorderly, feathery tails mounted on my wall in Rio as soon as we take out this rat."

Kowalski flinched, though the threat wasn't aimed at him, and scribbled harder at his paper. Skipper sighed, mentally berating himself. They had begun to lose themselves with this mission. Morale was down, Kowalski was an antisocial wreck, Rico was hitting the bottle nightly, Manfredi had taken to womanizing again- another squeal from the room next door- and Johnson... Skipper didn't want to think of Johnson. All this because the Penguin High Command suspected evil in this cold Canadian town. The team hasn't been this dysfunctional since their first official mission in Nairobi.

_Idle hands are the Devil's playthings, _Skipper thought darkly.

Idle hands, troubled minds, and two straight weeks of harrowing silence that did little to ease the madly rushing imaginations of the four agents- it brought out the worst in all of them. Skipper huffed silently and began pacing, thoughts still racing and mind rolling in turmoil. His regular footsteps contradicted the ticking of the clock, and every fourth step was jilted as he turned on his heel. Kowalski twitched silently at the irregularity, and cast a dark gaze over to the older penguin. When Skipper caught his eye the frustrated commander growled to himself and stomped over to the door.

"I'm going to check up on Johnso-"

The door was leveled with an ear-shattering bang, and a puff of smoke.

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Brilliant, otherworldly pain coursed through his small, wretched body. His once pure, snowy breast feathers were grimy and stained with the blood of the numerous cuts that criss-crossed his pudgy little form. With a groan akin to the creaking whine of ancient trees he pushed himself up with an aching flipper. The floor was hard and cold, unforgiving. He shivered, and his supporting flipper threatened to give out- the other was unresponsive. The cold's sharp teeth bit into his tenderized flesh, and he cursed the world. A pair of flippers jerked him roughly and sat him on his backside, supported by thick iron bars. A low voice murmured something about crying like a new chick, but he hadn't the strength or the will to make a reply.

Damn, it was cold. He trembled, curling in on himself in an effort to conserve heat. His body had begun to blissfully numb itself, and the misery he felt slowly was pushed to the back of his mind. Where was he? That didn't matter too much. Had he been captured? Surely not. Who else was here with him? At that he forced his eyes open slowly, wincing at the blinding light. There stood a thickly built penguin, taller than himself bearing an unreadable expression.

"Who are you?" His once clipped English accent had softened over time, but it was still discernible through the slow tones of the Texans he had spent the last three years with.

"So the frostbitten kid lives," grumbled the larger bird, "where we you stationed, anyway? The middle of the desert? It's only twenty-five, and you're over here quivering like a leaf."

The little penguin flushed and glared. The life was thankfully flooding back to him. "I asked who you were."

"And I didn't answer."

Manfredi stared idly back down at the boy, unphased by his glare. He couldn't have been older than fourteen, but his bloody and ruffled feathers made him look a few years older. A bloodstained grey cloth bound his broken left flipper; Manfredi certainly didn't have a hand in that. He reached up and touched his face, feeling a similar cloth. He knew the pale fabric to be painted red above his right eye- or rather, where it should have been. The robust agent flinched when his flippertip strayed too close to the gaping socket.

The younger bird paled, as though seeing his cellmate for the first time. With his feathers all askew, Manfredi looked bigger than he actually was. Grime stained his pearly underside, and a majority his feathers were singed. Dried blood was smeared across his face and chest, not all of it his own. But his hollow stare pierced the Brit far deeper than anything else giver could. Streaks of red slid from below the bandage over his eye. The strip of cloth was stained almost black with gore. The living eye burned with the dark passion of a dedicated soul. The lad touched his broken flipper nervously, his stomach threatening mutiny.

"I'm assuming you're the one who did this?" He tapped the cloth. "Thanks for that."

Manfredi snorted. "I didn't do it, Shivers."

Oh. "Then... Well..." He was at a loss, and his hostility vanished as though he couldn't be both gruff and perplexed at the same time. "My name's Tux. Mistah Tux to most."

The big penguin huffed again, this time in mild amusement. "Manfredi. _Mister Manfredi to you_." He mocked with a smirk.

Tux frowned. "Alright then _Mistah Manfredi,_ but if you didn't bandage us then who did?"

Manfredi frowned, and his single eye stared dismally past the Brit. Tux turned, and frowned as well. A lump of brown and grey feathers was curled at the far end of their cell, unmoving. The two penguins slowly made their way over to the out-of-place songbird. Tux touched the torn remains of a blanket that fruitlessly covered a strip of her chest and back- it was of the same fabric that bound he any Manfredi's wounds. The little penguin shook the mockingbird gently, though a dark section of his brain scorned him and screamed that the pretty little bird would never wake up.

"I think they must have grabbed her by mistake. She was too scared, and too harmless, to have been one of their enemies. I woke up after she'd set your flipper," Manfredi explained, a respectful distance away from the dead civilian.

Tux's frown deepened and he removed his flipper, taking a step back. He didn't know the bird, but had met several other mockingbirds- they were all fairly similar in their humble and gentle ways, and could sing the prettiest songs. He looked at Manfredi, and found himself glaring dangerously again.

"She was just a civilian, and you didn't try to save her?"

"She froze to death on the opposite side of the room at a time when I could barely wiggle my toes!" The older animal spat at the jab. "What could I do, think warm thoughts and hope she was psychic?"

Tux was at a loss for words. He was a trained soldier, a spy, and an assassin- but that didn't make a civilian's death any sadder. He gazed back down into the stranger's half-lidded, emotionless eyes. He heard Manfredi turn and waddle back to the far side of the cage, calling over his shoulder.

"It wasn't right for them to kill an innocent. But that's what they do; at least now they can't hurt her any further."

From their awkward deliverance, Tux was sure that his cellmate wasn't often prone to similar thoughts. He huffed silently, closed the mockingbird's eyes, and pulled the blanket over her frozen face, trying to touch her stiff and lifeless body as little as possible in the process. He the turned and joined Manfredi, who tentatively prodded his face around his makeshift eyepatch. Tux watched with a queasy stomach as drops of a brighter red stained Manfredi's face and he hissed. The big fellow's lonely eye was drawn again to the dead mockingbird, and he felt a superstitious tingling in his gut. To be held captive with a dead songbird was a less than pleasant omen.

"Who are they?"

Manfredi knew Tux was asking about their captors by the way he spat the poison words. His young eyes were also on the lifeless symbol of innocence. Manfredi glanced up and around at all corners of the ceiling, knowing without a doubt that there were cameras hidden there somewhere. He made sure to give the villains behind the lenses a nasty scowl before turning his attention to the youth.

"As far as I know, a deranged, ambitious dolphin with a major grudge against humans and penguins, and his army. HQ didn't give us much intel."

Tux nodded. "And they intend to kill us?"

Manfredi's eye was sparkling knowingly, and his voice was low as he replied, "I don't think they'll have much of a chance."

He hoped the boys were okay. They had to be okay. They were, and soon they'd be there to spring the imprisoned pair.


End file.
